


Fate/Starlight

by Tanhony



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Original Character Death(s), POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-05 12:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17324768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanhony/pseuds/Tanhony
Summary: In the far future, long after the extinction of magecraft, a new Holy Grail War is starting with the help of the mysterious substance known as Zenithlight. Far from Earth, in the Zenith system - where thirty-two planets orbit a single sun - seven Masters come together with wishes in their hearts, ready to set ancient Servants against each other until only one remains.





	1. True Void

" _The realm of space is the realm of true void. That is to say, the absence of all Texture and human reason. It is the ultimate in blank slates - and for that reason, it is a place susceptible to the slightest influence. An empty canvas painted over with many contradictory colours. For this reason, stoicism is a vital attribute for any lone traveller through the black ocean. Subjective reality must be made objective. The subject must believe wholeheartedly and without a sliver of doubt in the reality they wish to exist in. They must hold no skepticism in their heart, and know that the laws of physics they are accustomed to are 100% accurate._

_Else the realities of stranger, less sympathetic entities will take root instead."_

_Dr. Walter Simms - The Big Empty (2284)_

* * *

After spending a certain amount of time travelling alone through space, you started to appreciate just how little space you had. Spacefaring vessels were built for utility, not luxury after all - not unless you were some EarthReach higher-up or official, then you got all the space you needed.

The ship really consisted of just two rooms - the pilot's seat, which had cryogenic capabilities built right into it - and the cargo hold, which was all but full of Zenithlight. Needless to say, it wasn't a lot to work with.

Drummond lay sprawled out in the pilot's seat, eyes lazily following the stars as they rushed past. People said space was dark, and Drummond really wished it was. Instead, there were so many stars that you couldn't even close your eyes and get a moment of sleep. Truth be told, he really should have been in his cryosleep - to sit out the flight peacefully - but he didn't exactly trust his cheap autopilot not to charge straight into a sun. Best to wake up every now and then to make the necessary adjustments, rather than leave it in the hands of fate.

There'd been horror stories during his training days at the Academy - his second time, working with EarthIntel - about cocky agents who went right into cryosleep and never woke up. There was no limit to the things that could go wrong, when you really thought about it. In the grand scheme of things, you were a tiny ant in a tin can, flying through the void, inches away from the space that would crush him, freeze him, do any number of terrible, gruesome things to him.

So it was best not to think about it.

It really wasn't  _that_  bad. He had entertainment vids stocked up, after all.  _Oyir's Learning with Film, White Moon Princess Phantasmoon_  and  _Walking with Beasts_. Those three shows. One episode of three shows. On repeat. Over and over.

Forever.

It really wasn't that bad.

Despite the difficulty, he squeezed his eyes shut - best to get his reality exercises over with, so long as he was awake.

He remembered them well. They'd been drilled into him for years during off-world training, after all. He'd been reprimanded by more stern commanders than he could count for forgetting them, so he'd stopped.

Drummond cleared his mind, stuffing his fatigue and boredom into a tiny box and locking it away for the time being. The most important part was complete focus. Without that, the entire thing was pointless.

_You are a human being._ "I am a human being," he whispered, voice creaky from disuse. The words, strictly speaking, weren't the most important aspect of the exercise - his mind had been programmed to perform thousands of secondary calculations as part of this process, with the words tying them together into a concrete whole.

_A human being is an organism with a head, two arms, two legs and a cardiovascular system. You are one of these organisms._ "A human being is an organism with a head, two arms, two legs and a cardiovascular system. I am one of these organisms." Together with these words, he allowed images to flash through his mind - diagrams of the human body's anatomy, primarily. You couldn't afford to be too vague when it came to your reality.

_You are capable of independent thought._ "I am capable of independent thought."

_Gravity exists. The principles of energy and mass exist. These laws of physics are immutable._ "Gravity exists. The principles of energy and mass exist. These laws of physics are immutable."

_You exist._

A pause.

"I exist."

And with that final affirmation, Drummond opened his eyes. He caught a glimpse of himself in the pilot window - of tired eyes framed by scruffy black hair and an unfortunate beard. He grimaced; he'd have to take care of that before getting things started. He didn't want to make a bad first impression, after all.

* * *

_One month earlier._

"Zenith?" said Drummond, sat in that same pilot seat, scanning through the information he'd been sent. His ship, the  _Sparrow_ , was docked in one of the countless covert auto-stations that drifted in unmapped space - between Sol and the rest of Earth-controlled space. As an agent of EarthIntel, the military's intelligence division, he had clearance to make use of it. He'd been directed to this location when he'd left Europa two days ago.

He hadn't really questioned it at the time - sudden inexplicable orders really weren't strange in his line of work - but the information he'd been beamed was something else. Holy Grail War? Servants? Fighting for an omnipotent wish-granting device?

After the Same Wars - after seeing the fleet of copy Earths drifting forward as battleships - Drummond had thought he couldn't be surprised anymore.

The universe, it seemed, was intent on proving him wrong.

"You're familiar, I trust," said General Barten, on the other end of the vidscreen. The older man had a face that looked like it was carved from stone, and eyes just as cold. This was the first time Drummond had directly spoken to him, and he couldn't really say he was enjoying it. But this was a …  _unique_  mission, after all.

"O-Of course, sir." Drummond tapped the vial of Zenithlight - the fuel of the gods, some called it - strapped to his hip. The glowing blue liquid sloshed in its container. "Carrying quite a bit of it myself. But I can't say I've ever been to the place where they make the stuff."

"An Earth boy, through and through," the General nodded approvingly, the hints of foreshadowing of a smile on his face. "All the necessary information is in the file. We've had our strategists outline several places where it'd be best to set up a base. Look through it in your own time. The catalyst was received without incident?"

"Without incident, sir," said Drummond, lifting up the item in question as he spoke. It didn't look like much - a few scraps of black human hair contained in a secure vial, but he'd been told it had cost an exorbitant sum to acquire.

"You'll want to summon the Servant as soon as you enter the Zenith system," said Barten. "For protection purposes."

Drummond frowned. "Will outside influences really be compatible with this ritual? I know it was originally magecraft, but it's just a replication with Zenithlight. Wouldn't incorporating a catalyst count as altering the ritual?"

Zenithlight really was a miracle - it could imitate anything, so long as the user completely understood the thing they wanted to imitate. Bullets for a gun, fuel for a spaceship - even magecraft was just another phenomenon for it to replicate. But it couldn't create anything new. With the extinction of magecraft, the Light could only be used to perform magics that has already been created. The practice had, in a sense, become a dead art.

There would never be a new advancement in the field, no breakthroughs or advances to the Root - the thing Drummond had learnt mages had sought, back during his time training for EarthIntel.

All magecraft was now was another bag of tricks for weasels like him to take advantage of.

"Our researchers say no. A primary function of the ritual is summoning a Heroic Spirit based on a provided catalyst. The catalyst doesn't alter the principles of the ritual itself, so it should be fine. Now - we can waste no time. Win that Grail for Earth, Mr. Drummond. These are uncertain times - and we  _need_  to ensure humanity's safety."

"Of course, sir." Drummond leaned forward to end the communication, only to be interrupted by a swift glare from the General.

"And Mr. Drummond - the Grail is to be delivered  _immediately_  following the War's conclusion. No wishes are to be made until then, by Master  _or_ Servant."

A pause.

"Of course, sir."

The vidscreen clicked off. Drummond clicked a button on the arm of his chair, and the autopilot began taking the  _Sparrow_  out of dock. Its pilot, however, sat there in silence.

Take the Grail straight to EarthReach? He could, he could. In fact, he really should.

But did he  _have_ to? Hadn't he done enough? He'd fought against the Same for them, watched his comrades die for them, gone through the dark years in EarthIntel for them. Surely they now owed him something. The Grail would repay that debt, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it? What, really, could they do to stop him?

There was nothing they  _could_ do, should he choose to ignore their demands and make a wish anyway.

And yet, when he thought about actually doing it, a shiver shot up his spine.

Drummond laughed bitterly. He'd entertain these rebellious thoughts, he knew, but he'd never dare act on them. He wasn't the kind of person with the courage to against those above them, no matter what advantages he held.

An Earth boy, through and through.

Through and through.

Damn it.

* * *

Drummond rubbed his now-smooth chin, brushing the crumbs off his pilot suit as he cleared the biggest space he possibly could for his new guest. It wasn't much - the  _Sparrow_  had been deliberately built small enough to slip through blockades - but he managed to get enough room for the Servant to stand without being right in his face. Apparently, these Servant familiars could become intangible, so space didn't seem like it would be the biggest issue after the summoning was over and done with.

To his side, against the wall of the cargo hold, he'd placed two heavy canisters of Zenithlight. They'd scan the information he provided them, recreate the ritual based on the principles existing within his mind, and serve as substitutes for the magical energy the ceremony required. With the extinction of original magecraft, this was the only means to recreate its wonders.

He placed each of his hands against one of the canisters, and took in a deep breath. As he did, the Zenithlight drained from the containers, and their eerie light transferred instead to his palms.

Drummond thought deeply - unflinchingly - about the principles he wanted the Light to replicate. The summoning ritual for a Heroic Spirit, tied to a Holy Grail War. Images of magic circles and whispered calculations ran through his mind and, as they did so, Drummond could feel the Light burrowing in after them, growing around the thoughts like weeds. A dull pain began to grow inside his skull and - after a moment - it became blinding, his vision turning white.

And then, it was over. The pain vanished so quickly, it was like someone had been holding Drummond's skull in their grip and had suddenly let go.

When he opened his eyes, Drummond saw that the glow had vanished from his palms. Instead, it had transferred to the floor, forming a bright blue summoning circle, veins of Light waving through the air around it.

It was ready. It had really been able to copy such a complicated ritual  _exactly_.

Hesitantly, Drummond stepped forward and placed the catalyst in the middle of the circle. Would it be alright for it to stay in the vial? It should be fine, right? The important part was the hair. Surely it wouldn't think the vial was the catalyst. Would it?

Drummond gingerly went back, emptied the vial of the hairs, and stuffed it back into its pocket. There.  _Now_ that should be fine.

Stepping back once again, as healthy a distance from the circle as he could manage, he opened his mouth to speak - then closed it again.  _Right_. There was no need for him to do an incantation. He'd given the Light that information as well.

The Light began to speak, a soft buzzing in an approximation of a male human voice. Drummond shuddered.

And, heedless of his discomfort, the Light began to chant.

* * *

The Zenith system, with thirty-one planets in perfect orbital balance around a single blazing blue sun (thirty-two if you counted ZenithCorp's artificial satellite), was one of Humanity's greatest wonders. That sun was also the source of Zenithlight, the miracle substance that could replicate any phonomena with sufficient mass and information. This, of course, meant that everybody wanted it - and the people who could  _make_  it naturally became very powerful very fast.

Thus, Zenith was a system that now rivalled Earth when it came to population and importance to the government structure. Only ZenithCorp could make the Light, and so ZenithCorp had the power - power that now rivalled EarthReach.

This place, it could be said, was at the center of everything.

And yet, space was big. A true void, and an empty one.

The  _Sparrow_  hung there, on the edge of the system, all alone in the night. The front port, the only way to see what was inside, glowed with a fiery blue light.

And for those few moments, it looked like a shooting star itself.

* * *

Drummond blinked, clearing his vision as the Light faded, leaving an acidic scent where it once was. Smoke - or maybe it was just steam - drifted through the cabin. Soon enough, though, the ventilation system began to drain it away, revealing a figure, about a head shorter than him, standing where the summoning circle had been.

The person - the  _Servant_  - looked up, eyes flicking around the cabin for a moment before coming to rest on him. They wore eastern-looking armour, maybe Chinese, and had dark hair roughly cut short, as though done with a dagger or rough implement. In one hand, they held a worn and chipped longsword - in the other, a shield of much better quality.

The boy (no, girl? Drummond wasn't quite sure) blinked, as though accepting their situation. Bold green eyes looked into Drummond's cold grey ones. Then, they nodded their head respectfully.

"Servant Saber," they said in a low voice. "Hua Mulan, reporting for duty."


	2. Palace Quartz

A great distance from where the  _Sparrow_  had drifted during the summoning, and a great deal earlier, another ship had drifted - but this one dead, robbed of oxygen by a most unfortunate malfunction.

It was far from any colonies or stations, and so it wasn't found for a while. For that brief amount of time, the ship and its occupant stayed there in space, stuck in that single moment as if frozen in time.

Except for the rotting, of course. There was nothing to stop the rotting.

By the time Quera Di'Reshti came across the ships stray signals, there was not much to indicate that its pilot had been human.

The bounty hunter was grateful that she couldn't smell in her helmet as she rummaged through what she'd managed to retrieve from the derelict, putting aside personal effects and looking for credit chips, valuables and any useful intelligence.

"Hm," she said, pulling out a folder that the pilot, a Dr. Walter Simms, had tried to conceal within the wall of his vessel. "What's this…?"

_CONTINGENCY_ _4: THE HOLY GRAIL WAR,_ read the folder's title.

* * *

_Three days later._

"The Holy Grail War?" said Rider, sitting cross legged on the hotel room chair. "Yes. I, um, understand. I'm fine with that."

Quera grinned. She hadn't thought it would happen, but it was still good to know she hadn't drawn some wimp who couldn't fight as her Servant.

Still, Rider didn't  _look_  like the strongest guy around. He was small - shorter than her - and absurdly long purple hair cascaded down from his head like a protective cocoon, covering the sides of the chair he was sat on. A modest silvery crown, more like a tiara than anything, decorated his head. The white robe he wore didn't look like it could really protect much, either, ending at his knees.

Was this really the most fitting Servant for her, Quera wondered? She was a bounty hunter, someone used to killing as a way of life, whereas this kid looked like he'd never killed a fly. Her bulky armour lay discarded on a table off to the side, but she still wore body armour under her casual wear, and had a shield generator concealed on her person.

Come to think of it, though, Rider  _was_  a Servant. Quera wasn't 100% familiar with how this whole thing worked, but that surely meant you couldn't judge him by appearances, right?

"Rider…" mused Quera, running a hand through her spiky violet hair - like the spines of a hedgehog more than anything else.

"Yes?" said Rider, cocking his head.

"Rider…"

" _Yes_?"

"Hm … no, I don't like the sound of it. You gotta tell me your True Name."

Rider sighed, closing his pale eyes. "As I explained, Master, you're not a mage. If I tell you my name, there's a good chance an enemy mage could extract that information from your mind."

"Yeah," said Quera. "I remember - but how am I supposed to plan our fights if I don't know what you can do? You could be, like, Harry Houdini for all I know! And he died from being punched in the gut, so I'd have to make sure that didn't happen!"

Rider blinked. "I look like Harry Houdini to you?"

"It's just an example!"

There was a muffled moan from the next room.

They were sat in the Palace Quartz, one of Derza Colony's more …  _illicit_  hotels. It wasn't the most respectful place to summon an ancient hero, to be sure, but Quera didn't exactly have the run of the place when it came to real estate.

"Please try to ignore that," said Quera, doing her best not to meet Rider's eyes.

"Yes, I'm doing my best," Rider sighed again. "Are you  _sure_  you need to know my True Name?"

"Why, were you a dirtbag or something?" Quera put a hand to her hip and scowled. She was supposed to be in charge here, right? The Command Seals had appeared on her hands, just like the doctor's notes had said, so shouldn't she be calling the shots? "Come  _on_ , it can't be that bad!"

Rider put a finger to his lips in contemplation for a moment or two, then nodded. "Very well. I am Chrysaor, king of Iberia."

Finally, an answer out of the kid. Quera's eyes opened wide and she gasped. "Really?"

"Yes."

"You're  _Chrysaor_?"

"Yes."

"Never heard of you."

Rider rolled his eyes. From what Quera had seen, it looked like the brief contact between them had already been enough to make him perpetually exasperated at her. She had that kind of effect on people. "Very funny," he said.

"No, I mean it. I've really never heard of you."

Rider shot her a concerned look. "What, really?"

"Really."

"The son of Poseidon and Medusa? I came out of the Gorgon's neck when her head was cut off? My brother's the Pegasus?"

Quera frowned. "Your brother's a horse?"

"Yes, of course!"

"Okay, okay," said Quera, lifting her hands placatingly. Rider looked to be reasonable most of the time, but from what she'd just seen he was just as capable of getting heated as anyone else. "I'm sure your legend is very impressive -"

"Yes, it  _is_."

"- I'm sure it's very impressive, but uh … what do you actually  _do_? Like, fighting? Do you punch, are you - are you good at kicking?"

Rider blushed, pulling his robe down a little. "Um, no - not very good at kicking."

He held out his hand and - after a brief flash of light - he held a golden sword, so thin it could be held between two fingers. It was a dazzling weapon: rather than the sword having a metal blade, it seemed more like molten gold was maintaining the  _shape_  of a blade protruding from the hilt. When Rider rotated the hilt slightly, the gold blade moved with it, flowing as if it were water in a river.

"It's beautiful," breathed Quera, all sarcasm forgotten in that moment of looking at the golden sword. Even she could appreciate a masterful weapon when she saw one.

"It's name is Chrysaor too," smiled Rider. "It didn't have magical properties when I was alive, so I can't be quite sure, but it's apparently very good at cutting things."

"So, that's your … your Nubile Phantom, right?" Quera struggled to remember the term she'd read in Doctor Simms' folder.

"Noble Phantasm, a crystallization of legend. This is one of the ones I have in my possession, yes. We of the Rider class usually get a better arsenal than the other classes."

The grin returned to Quera's lips - her doubts had been thoroughly assuaged. There was no way any of the other Masters could have a Servant as cool as hers, right? His sword was made of  _gold_ , for god's sake - and it was apparently pretty strong, too.

"So, Master…"

"Quera. Let's not be too formal, yeah?"

Rider nodded. "Of course, Quera. If you don't mind me asking … where exactly are we? I'm aware that we're in a, ah, inn of sorts - and that we're in a solar system called Zenith, but I'd appreciate a little more information."

Quera walked over to the large window on the far side of the wall, pressing the button on its side that turned it from opaque to transparent.

Larange, the capital city of Derza Colony, lay set out before them. Monolithic cube-shaped buildings formed the foundations of the city - home to official installations like government offices and maintenance stations - while the civilian population grew around them like mold on bread. Cars flew past, constantly in a hurry as humans always were, a symphony of horns merging into the night. Outside the territory of the city, endless fields of mirrorgrass - changing colours in the moonlight from a deep red to a light blue - spread out on the planet's surface.

"Derza Colony," said Quera, looking out at the city. "Not the prettiest planet in the system, not the richest, but … that's it. I don't really have anything nice to say about it."

"A hub for the underworld, I take it?" said Rider, eyes flicking over to Quera's sniper rifle leaning against the empty Zenithlight canisters.

Quera's face turned melancholy, eyes downcast. "Yeah, I guess. That could be a positive, if you really stretch it. It's funny … I grew up in this place, but I can't think of a good thing to say about it. Not a single one."

"Oh, you did? You're familiar with it, then?"

"Yeah. Right down there." Quera pointed down deep between the buildings - where there was only darkness and, if you squinted, the faint shapes of humans moving. Slums where no light could reach.

Rider bit his lip. "There's really nothing good you can say, then?"

Quera shook her head.

"Hmm," Rider closed his eyes as if searching through his memory. That was right - Quera had read in the file that Servants received information on the era they were summoned in. Was that what this was? "You share this planet with another species though, right? That's quite extraordinary, isn't it?"

She shrugged. "I guess."

The Ovolovo lived on the other side of the planet, so they weren't a common sight in the human part of the colony. Still, you saw them sometimes - floating spheres shaped like meteors, with five to ten cavernous holes along the surface of their bodies. They kinda creeped Quera out, so she tried to avoid interacting with them whenever possible.

"I…" she began to speak again, only to be interrupted by another moan from next door. A louder one.

Rider cleared his throat. "Maybe … maybe we should continue this conversation somewhere else."

* * *

Rider sat on the edge of the roof, swinging his legs idly as he looked over the city. It really wasn't the best, now that he looked at it. Even without taking the slums into consideration, the level of disorganization and rot you could see in the most prominent buildings was disheartening. When he was alive, keeping the capital of his kingdom in prime condition was Rider's greatest joys.

It was like polishing a piece of fine china, ready to be presented to the world. A smile came to his lips just thinking of it.

Nearby on the roof, Quera was getting the car ready to depart. It seemed that in this era, flying vehicles were quite common among even normal humans. Back in the Age of Gods, that would have been considered a miracle for the commonfolk. Rider's brother's ability to fly had been a subject of awe and envy. Now, it seemed to be nothing special.

Oh well. Times changed, it was inevitable.

"Master," called out Rider.

"Too formal," Quera shouted back from the car.

Rider smiled to himself again, this time a little more ruefully. His Master certainly was a spirited woman.

**It reminded him of his sisters, truth be told.**

His smile turned to a frown at the unwelcome, intrusive thought. That was not a memory that belonged to him. He had no sisters. They had been  _hers_. It seemed, even after death, he could not escape the Gorgon's influence.

He shook his head, as if hoping the unpleasant sensation would just fall out of his ear.

"Quera," he corrected himself, calling out once again. "What is your wish for the Grail?"

The sound of rummaging from behind stopped, and a moment later Rider heard her footsteps approaching.

"You won't like it," she said quietly.

"How do you know?"

"It isn't an admirable wish."

He frowned. "In what way?"

She sighed, breath misting in the air and rising into the sky. "I want to be rich. That's it. I'm sick of being poor, so I want to be rich." Quera spoke quickly, as though wanting to get it over with as soon as possible.

"Oh," said Rider, eyebrows raised. "You had me worried for a moment there. I thought it might be something truly terrible, but that's a fine wish."

"It is?"

"It is. Looking after yourself is one of the most important parts of being human. Once you know you're alright, you can turn your attention to helping others, right?"

Quera looked away. "I suppose."

"That wasn't how you were thinking of it, was it?"

She shook her head, chuckling. "No, I really am just thinking of myself."

"That's fine too, as long as you're pursuing happiness. That's a wish I'll happily fight for."

"And you?" Quera looked down at him.

"Hm?"

"What will you wish for?"

Rider paused. The thought hadn't really occurred to him until just then. In life, he'd been blessed with many kinds of happiness - the love of the gods, the love of a kingdom, the love of his family. Could he really ask for anything more, after being given so much?

His mind flashed to his first living memory.  _Her_  last living memory.

"There's nothing I truly want for myself," he admitted. "But … if I could make the fate of another a little happier, I'd fight for that. Yes, I suppose that could be my wish."

Quera frowned as if that made no sense, but the expression faded quickly. She had enough tact not to say it out loud, clearly. Her head turned - away from Rider, looking out at the city.

"We're setting up base on this colony?" Rider asked quietly.

"No. If I die, I don't want it to be here. We'll go somewhere a little less awful."

"I see."

Rider got up and strolled over to the car.

A moment later, Quera tore her gaze away from the city - as if she were ripping off a bandaid, a moment of painful relief - and followed.


	3. A Cold, Metal Love

"WOULD YOU LIKE SOME TEA?" blared the server robot - a bulky, mechanical arm like the ones they used to have in car factories. In its clumsy fingers, it held a smoking kettle.

"No thank you," murmured Isaac, flipping through his book, doing his best not to look at the machine as it trundled back to its corner and stored the kettle once again within its chassis. It kept asking every ten minutes whether he wanted tea - he'd have to ask Dietrich to adjust that a little, if he ever got here.

He was already five minutes late.

Isaac put down his book and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn't like waiting - especially not in the lounge. The lounge was his father's room, even if he was never here.

The lounge was probably as big as most people's houses, each corner crowded with a legion of serving robots ready to take care of any possible request. A wafer-thin television took up the majority of one wall - it was turned off right now, for some peace and quiet. A selection of chairs, with designs from countless eras, were positioned throughout the room, ready to be moved into any number of configurations depending on the occasion.

Isaac himself was a thin boy, with big anxious eyes and a bob of fluffy white hair. He was the kind of person who made everything he wore look one size too big, and so the fancy suit and tie he wore looked significantly  _less_ fancy.

Outside, a bird tweeted. It was fake, of course - pre-recorded. There were no birds on the Zenith Core.

It was the thirty-second planet in the Zenith system: an artificial satellite created from scratch by the Zenith Corporation, a mass of steel and industry that contained the refineries for Zenithlight, the head offices for the company that made it, and the residential area (terraformed to look presentable, of course) that contained Isaac's mansion.

The mansion belonged to the entire Vane family, really, but Isaac was the only one who actually lived there. His sister was often away pursuing her own projects, and running ZenithCorp consumed most of Father's time.

So, it was pretty lonely. Apart from the robots, there were only two Servitors assigned to the mansion at a time - the less actual people there, the less security risk, apparently.

Dietrich entered the room at last, the door sliding open to allow him through. He adjusted his black gloves, beaming at Isaac as he walked in. Isaac offered a weak smile in return.

Isaac had known Dietrich for ten of his fifteen years, and yet he didn't really know that much about his tutor. He was trusted by Father, of course, or he'd never even be allowed  _near_  the mansion - but apart from that, a mystery. One Dietrich didn't seem keen on enlightening him on.

"Sorry I'm late," Dietrich said, looking professional as ever in a dark suit, fiery hair tied back in a ponytail. "Had some business to take care of before I could head over here."

"Important business?" asked Isaac, cocking his head.

Dietrich wagged a finger. "Maybe, maybe. But don't try and get information out of me, 'kay? I am a  _firmly_  closed book, my young friend."

The serving robot trundled over. "WOULD YOU LIKE SOME -"

"Yes please," said Dietrich, interrupting it as he took his jacket off and hung it up. "The usual, if you please, my good man."

As the serving robot began preparing the tea, Dietrich swung a seat around - a late 19th century British armchair - and sat down, crossing his legs.

"So," he continued. "You said you have concerns?"

Isaac nodded eagerly. "Yes," he said. "Yes, it's about the war."

Dietrich frowned. "The war? The conflict with the Same is on the other side of Earth territory. It shouldn't concern us, right?"

Isaac shook his head, hair flying everywhere from the motion. He brushed it out of his field of vision as best he could. "No, I mean the  _war_! The Holy Grail War! What's happening with it?"

Dietrich's frown deepened. "Isaac, you know your father doesn't want you involved with this stuff, come on-"

" _Please_. I don't want to get involved, I just want to know what's going on. Has Father picked a Master yet? Did they summon their Servant?"

His tutor closed his eyes and tapped a finger against his temple, as though wondering how much information it would be appropriate to divulge. "Your father  _has_  picked a Master, yes," he said slowly. "And they  _have_  summoned their Servant. More than that I cannot say."

"It's my sister, isn't it?"

"More than that I cannot say."

" _Dietrich_  -"

Dietrich shot him a stern glare, and he shut his mouth. Inside, though, resentment still bubbled away.

Rosa, Isaac's sister, was the trusted one - the one Father allowed to do whatever she wanted. If she'd asked to fight in the Holy Grail War he'd arranged, he'd allow it in an instant. And yet when Isaac asked, he had been refused just as quickly. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair.

Dietrich leaned forward, looking at him seriously. "Isaac," he said. "Your father cares about you very much. You must understand that. He is simply concerned for your safety. I would have refused your request had it been up to me, as well."

Isaac nodded, but he didn't really feel any better at all.

His whole life he'd known his place. He was the backup option in case something happened to Rosa, the child who was actually important.  _Someone_  had to inherit ZenithCorp in case the worst happened - and it was better him than nobody.

Nobody had ever actually told him this was the way things were. It was something he'd had to work out for himself, from the way people looked at him, from the way he was kept cooped up in this mansion. He swore that, sometimes, he even saw looks of pity in the eyes of the Servitors - was he really more wretched than a Servitor?

"Isaac," said Dietrich, voice still serious. Isaac looked up at him. "I'm concerned for your safety also. I'd like you to promise me that you won't try and get involved with the Holy Grail War. I know you. I know what you're like. So promise me, okay?"

Isaac's breath caught in his throat for a moment - but only for a moment.

"I promise," he said quietly.

* * *

Dietrich's shuttle rose up from the surface, blazing red like a shooting star as it drifted out of sight. Isaac watched from his same seat in the lounge, book still closed on his lap. He didn't especially feel like reading after that conversation. Mingled guilt and smugness battled for dominance in his belly - he'd gotten away with something, and he was happy about it, but was it really something he should have gotten away with?

"You're a cheeky boy, aren't you?" said Caster, appearing on the couch in a reclining position. It was if mist suddenly came together and formed her body.

She was a strange woman to look at. She looked young, but seemed old, as if her youth was just a mask she was wearing - and her teeth, which shone in the light, were filed down to deadly points. Her hair and pupils both were a pale white, like snow, clumping together like tendrils.

Her dress wasn't any less strange. She wore rags beaten black with soot and mud - frost clinging to their surface - but from the dignity she bore wearing them, they felt more like the finest garments money could buy.

And there was a pressure - a physical sensation of  _power_  - emanating from her. The kind of feeling that told Isaac that his Servant could probably kill him with a thought.

"WOULD YOU LIKE SOME TEA?" blared the serving robot.

Caster snapped her fingers and - less than a second later - a pale, small object rushed out of the shadows and smashed into the serving robot, demolishing it. Smoke belched out of its chassis, and it toppled to the floor.

"C-Can you not do that, please…?" said Isaac as the attacker emerged from the carcass of the robot.

The object was a pale, bloodless human hand - severed at the wrist and floating in the air, fingers twitching and spasming wildly. As it returned to Caster, hovering over her shoulder, five more hands emerged from various hiding placed around the room and joined their fellow in orbiting their master.

"Do what?" said Caster innocently, cocking her head.

"Break things … people will get suspicious, won't they?"

Caster laughed, an innocent sound as clear as a bell. "Oh, that? I'll ask them not to, but don't expect anything. My soul friends are quite cheeky, too!"

Isaac looked away. It was shameful to admit, but he really didn't feel like he was in charge of this Servant he'd summoned.

It was meant to be so simple. He'd prove his initiative by summoning a Servant on his own, tell Dietrich when he arrived, and participate in the Holy Grail War regardless of his Father's wishes … he was finally going to prove that he wasn't worthless.

Why, then, had he lied? Had he promised not to get involved?

When Isaac looked back up, Caster's face was inches from his own, mouth wide in a wicked grin.

"Shall I tell you?" she whispered, her breath cold as ice.

Isaac yelped, trying to jump backwards and knocking his chair over in the process. He went toppling to the floor, landing roughly as he heard Caster laugh once again.

"Tell me what?" he said through gritted teeth - it was best not to let her know that had hurt. He couldn't show weakness in front of a woman like this.

"Why you lied," said Caster, walking around the toppled furniture and squatting so that she was at eye level with him. "Why you promised not to get involved."

Isaac's blood went as cold as Caster's breath. "You can read my mind?" he said quietly. Oh, what had he gotten himself into him?

Again, Caster laughed. "No, no, no, dearie! Of course not. It's just written aaall over your face. Everything you're thinking and feeling. You're a terrible liar, you know."

Isaac looked down at the floor. "Dietrich believed me."

"Did he?" Caster smirked.

"He did," Isaac's eyes - suddenly wide in panic - went back up to meet Caster's. "He  _did_ , didn't he?"

Caster rose back up to her feet, nonchalantly strolling towards the window and looking out at the gardens. "Hmm. Who can say?"

"Oh God," moaned Isaac as he lifted the chair back up into its proper position. "I'm dead, I'm  _so_  dead, I'm so  _stupid_! What was I thinking?!"

"You're not dead. Stop worrying so much about it."

"I am, I am," said Isaac, the optimism of the last few days swiftly abandoning him. He was just the back-up, and the Master Father chose wouldn't hesitate to kill him. Or perhaps Caster would just betray him. But really, really, the one who'd done all this to him was himself. He'd as good as killed himself the moment he went against Father's wishes. It suddenly felt very hard to breathe, like someone was jamming their hand down his throat. "I'm dead, I'm so - so - so -  _so dead_!"

He felt Caster's freezing hands clamp down on his shoulders, holding him in place and halting his trembling body.

"Calm down," she said soothingly, as if reassuring a frightened child. "You don't die now, I can promise you that. I know exactly when you die, so you can trust me."

Isaac blinked. "Wha…?"

Satisfied that she'd calmed him down a little, Caster took a step back and leaned against the window. Where her body made contact with the glass, it began to frost over, slowly becoming opaque until it was a single white sheet.

"I'm a woman who enjoys defying fate," she said softly, tracing a little stick figure in the glass with her finger. "I look ahead, see how things  _end_ -" she drew her finger sharply across the stick figures neck. "-and then do my best to make things end differently. Right now, for you, I can tell where you end up. Would you like to know?"

Silently, Isaac nodded.

Caster smiled. "You die of old age, successful and utterly miserable. In this room, in fact. In that chair."

And then, she waved her hand in some abstract gesture - and Isaac could  _see_  it, see himself lying in the chair, more a mass of wrinkles than a man, bitterness and resentment radiating off of him like heat. The man's eyes drifted up, slow as molasses, then met Isaac's own. He sneered.

_And that,_  whispered Caster.  _Is the grand finale of Isaac Vane_.

With those few words, the world seemed to fall apart around Isaac, the walls crumbling like they were made of paper, the floor falling away into a bottomless void. It suddenly felt like the air itself was a fist, holding him tight in a vice-like grip.

"Is there…?" he began, trying to pull the world back together around him. "Can I … can I change that fate? You said you liked doing that, right…?"

Caster's smile spread to a grin, shark-like teeth glinting in the light. "But of course. If we march together, Master, I'm sure we can reach whatever ending we feel like."

Legs shaking once again, Isaac threw himself down onto the chair behind him. The chair he'd die in. A shiver ran down his spine, as if transmitted into his body from the chair itself.

"I don't … how do we change fate? We need to do something to - to move away from the path I'm on, right? What do we do?"

Caster sighed, moving away from the window - immediately, the frost on its surface began to melt. "Isaac," she said softly. "You already know what you need to do in order to do that, don't you? But you're not brave enough to do it, or to even admit to yourself that you've had the idea."

Isaac sighed, putting his face in his hands. It was true. He  _had_  had an idea, a nasty little thought brewing at the bottom of the well that was his mind.

The clock ticked.

With every tick, Caster drew closer, face expectant. Waiting. She clearly knew the answer she wanted - all that remained was to wait for Isaac to answer it.

He opened his mouth.

* * *

"So, just to confirm," said Isaac, leaning on the counter in the Servitor quarters. "You two are bound to follow whatever orders I give?"

The two Servitors nodded. Both of the homunculus girls looked identical - blonde hair, red eyes, appearing roughly seventeen or eighteen. The two of them were dressed in pale white dresses; these too were identical. The only way to tell the girls apart were the identifying tattoos on the backs of their hands -  _07,_  read one.  _08_ , read the other. Those were the only names afforded to them.

Servitors, artificial humans created to complete tasks, were a common sight on Earth and its closer territories - less so in the Zenith system, where people generally preferred machine servants. Still, Father preferred servants who could think for themselves.

"We're to obey you in all matters," said 07, looking down at the floor. "That is our purpose, yes."

"Our purpose." echoed 08, an offbeat smile drifting on and off her face. She wasn't quite all there - probably some fault in her design - but Isaac couldn't bring himself to have her replaced. It seemed cruel.

Isaac opened his mouth to continue, closed it, then opened it again.

_Are you going to do it or not?_  Caster's voice echoed in his mind. He could feel her presence, her spirit form, floating above him in the room.

That spurred him on.

"I have a series of instructions I need carrying out," said Isaac, doing his best to sound stern and commanding. "First of all, you should know that I am participating in the Holy Grail War as a Master. My Servant is Caster."

"Okay," said 07 calmly. Of course, this meant nothing to Servitors. Their only concern was how best to follow their master's orders. In that sense, thought Isaac, they were probably better servants than Caster.

"So," he continued. "I will need your help to get started - you two will be coming along with me, by the way."

07 nodded, accepting that. A second later, 08 nodded as well at 07's prodding.

"What do you need our help with, specifically?" 07 said.

Isaac took a deep breath. This was it. Do or die. The last chance to go back. He could easily say 'nevermind', use his Command Seal to dispatch Caster, and wipe his hands of the whole affair. He could. If there was still any doubt in his mind, that was really what he  _should_  do.

He didn't.

"You will write a ransom note," he said - cold, monotone, reading from the script inside his head. "Stating that you, an enemy Master in the Holy Grail War, have captured me. The price for my safe return is that the Master representing ZenithCorp must force their Servant to commit suicide. We'll include photographs of me looking scared, so the threat seems legitimate. I'll have Caster rough this place up, too, so it looks like there was a struggle."

"But…" said 08 dreamily, putting a finger to her lips and looking vaguely up at the ceiling. "We've don't got a spaceship. How do we leave here without anyone's knowing? We can't, can we…?"

Isaac waved that off. "Don't worry. Caster's Noble Phantasm can get us off-world."

"Noble Phantasm…?" 08's brow scrunched up in confusion. 07 shushed her, shooting her a harsh look.

"No, it's fine," said Isaac. "A Noble Phantasm is kind of like a … secret weapon? Caster, can you explain it?"

"But of course," said Caster, suddenly sitting behind the Servitors. 07 jumped at the sudden noise, swinging around, while 08 just calmly turned her head.

Isaac nodded towards the new arrival. "This is … This is Caster, my Servant." A thought occurred to him. "We're on the same team now, but don't follow any orders she gives you without asking me first."

Caster smirked. "Oh? You don't trust me?"

"Not really. You're a witch, right? I'd be stupid to trust you."

"That you would. Well done." She turned to the two Servitors. "So, you two homunculi born of human science. Master Vane here tells the truth: my house is more than capable of traversing the void of space for a little while. That should be enough to get us to one of those stations in orbits, and we can get another ship from there."

07's eyes flicked towards Isaac, as if she were going to ask him whether this was really a good idea, but the impression quickly faded from her gaze.

The place of a Servitor was to serve, after all.

* * *

Just before the day was over, Damian Vane - getting ready to leave the office - received a message containing the following text:

_Good evening, Mr. Vane._

_I am a participant in Dr. Simms' Holy Grail War, and am thus your friendly opponent. I'm sure you won't believe that just from my saying so, but it is the truth nonetheless. I summoned my Servant, Caster, and received the Command Seals marking me as a participant._

_Now, I've recently come into possession of your delightful son, and I have but a few modest demands I'd like you to meet for his safe return. Well, one demand, really._

_You are to contact the Master you have contracted to fight for you in this Holy Grail War and have them force their Servant to commit suicide immediately. The method is irrelevant - my only concern is that their Servant dies as soon as possible._

_I feel like I almost don't need to say this, but if you fail to meet my demands your son will die. However, I don't feel like that encompasses the severity of what I will do to him. Therefore, please allow me to elaborate just a little for your benefit._

_I will tear his eyes out from his head, and his tongue out from his mouth._

_I will break every bone he has._

_I will drown him in acid and see him empty._

_And at every point, I will have Caster repair his body so I may continue my good work. Should you fail, sir, I will kill your son in every way it is possible to kill a person._

_I hope you make the right choice._

_Hoping you are well,_

_A friendly adversary._

Enclosed in the file were three pictures, depicting Isaac Vane tied to a chair, gagged and obviously terrified out of his mind. At Damian's command, several agents were dispatched to the mansion - which was now a burnt-out wreck of its former self. It quite literally looked as if a bomb had hit the place.

The full might of ZenithCorp's security was dispatched soon after, spreading out into the system like a swarm of locusts.


	4. Watchwords in the Dark

"This is a pretty specific list you got here, Drummer Boy," said Rudolf Nhasinis, holding the file of keywords out in front of him and chuckling. "You gonna tell me what is about?"

"You know I won't," said Drummond, leaning forward. "So there's no point in asking, right?"

They were sat in a quiet corner of the Black Lantern, one of Zerder Colony's more prominent clubs. 'Quiet' corner might not have been the best way to describe it, actually, as even there it felt like someone was operating a jackhammer right into Drummond's ear. He'd never been a music person, so maybe that was it.

The interior of the club was a tiered affair, with five ascending levels - each level looking down at all the ones beneath them. Drummond and his local contact, Rudolf, were sat right at the back of the the fourth level, as far out of sight as it was possible to get. Down below, right at the bottom level, the crowds mobbed in their dancing. It looked more painful than anything else to Drummond - all the elbows - but it seemed they liked it.

Rudolf put the file back down on the table between them - it was a list of keywords Drummond wanted him to scan the local intelligence networks for. Basic stuff to do with the Holy Grail War, mentions of Servants and Masters, Command Seals and all that. Pretty much anything that could give Drummond a lead on the other Masters if they got a hit.

"So," Rudolf said, changing the topic as he looked at the girl behind Drummond. Saber was acting as his bodyguard, dressed discreetly in a leather jacket and jeans. "Who's the new face?"

Drummond began to speak, but was interrupted by Saber.

"That's none of your concern," she said, eyes cold.

There was a moment of silence - as much as there can be a silence in a building devoted to playing music so loud that it just becomes  _noise_  - and then Rudolf laughed heartily.

"Well said, well said," he chuckled, nursing his drink. "None of my business after all. You've paid me enough, after all."

He wagged the credit chip in front of his face - a hefty sum of money, straight from EarthIntel's resources. Then, he jammed it into his pocket.

"I'll keep an eye out, and an ear. But you've got me worried, Drummer. This is big money -  _government_  money. If you can't tell me anything else, tell me this - this is serious, isn't it?"

Drummond paused, deliberating over it in his mind. He'd known Rudolf for years, surely he could trust him. But he'd trusted before. Regretted it. Alara's face drifted into his mind, her smile - both innocent and duplicitous, depending on when you saw it. Widening, widening, grinning.

No. It really was better to keep your cards close to your chest. That way, you had something to block the dagger with.

"It's serious," Drummond conceded. "That's all I can tell you."

He felt Saber relax slightly behind him - she'd been against getting other people involved from the outset, which probably explained her brusqueness.

Rudolf sighed in disappointment, grunting as he stood up. "I'll get the word out, then. If someone so much as breathes these watchwords, I'll let you know."

"Thanks…"

"But, ah…"

"But?" Drummond raised an eyebrow. "The money's good, isn't it?"

Rudolf looked at him seriously, an unhappy smile on his face. "You're still doing this, man? Last I saw you, you said you were getting out. The time before that, too. When  _are_  you getting out?"

Drummond looked away, aware of Saber's growing interest in the conversation. It looked like she wanted to know more about the guy who'd summoned her - fair enough, he supposed, since he hadn't given her much to go on. He'd treated her mostly like he'd treat any of his assets in the field, detached and professional. There wasn't any need to give her his life story or anything like that.

But still, this was a question he needed to answer. When Rudolf had left EarthIntel, Drummond had said that he'd soon follow him. And he never had, out of a sense of what was at first duty and later became fear.

"After this," he said quietly, knowing he was probably lying, and watched Rudolf leave.

* * *

"Master," said Saber, following behind Drummond as they made their way back to the safehouse. Today had been a stormday, so the street was essentially one big puddle they had to wade through. That, at least, prevented an awkward silence.

"I'd rather not talk about it," said Drummond, tapping into his agent voice. Professional, but firm. It was yet another thing the Academy drilled into him.

"No, it's not that. We're being followed."

Drummond's casual gait didn't change, but within a moment all his senses were fine tuned to their limits - he could hear every drop of water in the area around them, see every ripple his feet made in the puddles beneath. Any anxiety vanished, and a terrible coldness rose up within him. A willingness to kill.

"How many?" he asked casually.

"Two. With guns." Drummond recognized that same coldness within Saber as well - her voice nor her body language changed either. That switch into soldier mode. It made sense; to go from a peasant girl to a warrior general, you needed a certain talent for compartmentalization.

"Alright. Mages?"

"No."

"Probably just looking to mug me, then. Or another participant hired them as muscle. Can you take care of it?"

"Of course." Her hand twitched - as if about to summon her sword right then and there.

"Wait," said Drummond suddenly.

She paused, looking up at him with a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "Master?"

Using his Servant to dispatch these thugs might be just what whoever sent them wanted - confirmation. No doubt there was some kind of surveillance watching this encounter, and if Saber started doing backflips and breaking the laws of physics as she pleased, it would reach the ears of people who Drummond very much didn't want to find out about it.

So, the course of action was obvious.

"Mundane combat only," he said, stopping. "No magic. Understood?"

"Understood."

As one, the two of them turned in the alley to face their pursuers. It was a burly looking man and woman who - despite their friendly expressions - had their hands in their jacket pockets and, no doubt, clutching guns or knives.

"Oh, hey there!" said the man, grinning and taking a step closer. "Sorry to bother ya at this late hour there, friend, but me and my wife are a little turned around, haha! Would ya, uh, would ya mind helping us out there, eh?"

"Sure, friend," said Drummond, smiling calmly and approaching as well. "You got a map or something I can take a look at?"

The moment the man leaned forward, Drummond lashed out with his fist at his throat, making impact with a horrible  _cracking_  sound. The man stumbled backwards, clutching at his throat with one hand while pulling a pistol out of his pocket with the other - but, without missing a beat, Drummond grabbed that arm and kept it pointed firmly away from him while he pulled his opponent until a hold.

The woman too pulled her gun out - but before she could fire at Drummond, she found Saber right in her face. The Servant hadn't moved so fast that it was impossible for a human, but it was close.

Saber reached forward - blindingly quick - and grabbed the woman's arm, bending it the wrong as easily as if it were a straw. She screamed, a bloodcurdling sound that no doubt reached for miles - and was silenced with another quick jab to the face by Saber, knocking her unconscious.

Then, without missing a beat, Saber span around and - lifting her leg high up off the ground - smashed it into the man's torso in a truly impressive roundhouse kick. He went flying, slamming into the metal wall and sliding down, thoroughly knocked out.

Drummond, after confirming both of their adversaries were disabled, inspected their weapons - basic kinetic pistols, easy to acquire on the black market. These thugs really weren't anything special. Still, there was the possibility that that affordability meant that someone had just hired masses of these thugs, rather than a single adept professional. Power in numbers was a real thing.

But, thought Drummond as he glanced at Saber - who was dusting herself off - it didn't seem like power in numbers was much of a concern for  _Servants_.

"Damn," he cursed, standing up from the unconscious bodies. "No instructions on them. I'd wanted to know who sent them."

"Likely an enemy Master," said Saber. "Perhaps Caster or Assassin - those're the types that'd benefit from such tactics, in my opinion."

"You have experience?"

Saber shook her head. "No, sir. This is my first Holy Grail War. I'm approaching it as a hypothetical."

_No, sir_. It took Drummond a moment to figure out why that felt so uncomfortable for him - it was the same way he addressed General Barten. The same way he addressed any superior. He didn't care for it.

"Drummond is fine," he said quietly, resuming their walk through the alley - leaving the unconscious bodies behind them. "Too much formality will just get in the way."

"Of course." Despite her saying that, the formality in her voice didn't change.

* * *

" _Please," Father said, trying weakly to rise from his bed - and failing, collapsing back each time. "You needn't do this, my daughter. I will go. I will fight."_

" _You will certainly not," she said, strapping on his old armour and inspecting his old, battered sword. "Hm. A little beaten up, but it should suffice."_

" _Your brother - your brother can fight."_

" _No. He is too young." She swiftly executed any hope he had that his daughter would not march off to war, knowing they were false. A kind mercilessness from a face as cold and loving as hers could not be denied._

" _Then - then we just tell them I am too ill."_

" _They will not care," said Mulan, spreading out her long black hair - which she took care of diligently every morning and night - and roughly cutting it away with the sword. Tufts of black fell to the floor. "A body is a body. Even one as ill as you can block a sword."_

" _Mulan, please," her father begged. "My flower … you will die if you go. Many people will die. We will think of something else."_

" _There is nothing else," she said, running a hand through her now-short hair. After a moment, she nodded to herself, apparently satisfied. "It's fine."_

" _How is it - how is it fine? You could die, Mulan! You'll die."_

" _A body is a body. Someone will die regardless. If it's me, that's acceptable."_

_Her father looked at her wide eyes, at the girl who could decide her own death was fine so easily. It wasn't that she wanted to die - he knew that, knew the way that she loved being alive, took such simple joy in it - but that she was willing to look through the available options and calmly decide that her own death was necessary. She'd do it, too. She'd cut her own throat if it led to the best possible outcome._

" _My death isn't certain, Father," she conceded, looking down at him, smiling faintly. "If you went to war, you would die. If my brother went to war, he would die. If I go to war, I may live. You see? We have the best chance for success this way."_

_Her father opened his mouth to protest further, to cling to any desperate reason why she could not - must not go to war. There weren't any. He decided then, in that instant, that it was useless, and shut his mouth._

_Perhaps some of that same loving coldness existed in him too._

* * *

Drummond slowly - reluctantly - opened his eyes, shaking away the confusion from finding himself in someone else's memories.

Rain battered against the windows. Stormday had come again, it seemed.

He had been sleeping, passing a few precious hours of peace in one of the hotel rooms he'd rented out - there were more, of course, but there were decoys. Tripwires were set up near the door, and motion sensors were hidden on the balcony. An auto-turret hovered discreetly in the darkest corner of the room, ready to fire at any unauthorized targets that crossed its path. Against human enemies at least, this was an impenetrable fortress.

For Servants, he supposed he had another kind of turret. His eyes focused on Saber, sat in a chair against the far wall. Her eyes were closed, but he could tell she was alert. Drummond smiled bitterly to himself.

A girl who could do whatever needed to be done without hesitation, huh?

They appeared - the images, as clear as if he were still there right now. Ships covered in blood, crews slaughtered in moments. Families dead in their houses, murdered without remorse. Grand libraries burning, the last great secrets returned to cinder at his hands. The torch in his hand. Alara, her eyes wide with terror and betrayal.

Ridiculous. She really wasn't a Servant suited to a coward like him.


	5. Why Was I Born?

_The first thing the boy remembered was having his head cut off._

_The second was being born._

_Now, he lay on the floor of a small boat, rolling here and there as the waves buffeted it, mind rolling in equal confusion._

" _Why…?" he said, not really knowing why. It felt like he was asleep, like he was dreaming. His thoughts were sluggish and half-formed._

_His companion looked down at him. The boy looked up at the young man, with weapons and armour of legend hanging off of him. This man was a hero, a mighty hero - the boy knew that. He didn't know_ how  _he knew that, but he did. And yet … the boy felt a sliver of resentment in his heart when he looked at this man called Perseus._

" _Why?" said Perseus, rowing the boat away from the island._

" _Why am I … still alive?" The thought finally took shape. This man, Perseus, was an enemy of his. The boy knew that without being told, just as he knew that the man was a hero._

" _Still alive? Why wouldn't you be?"_

_They went over a particularly rough wave, the boat bobbing precariously to the side._

" _I…" The boy truly didn't know the answer to the question, but he felt like he should. Like there was another him, standing behind him, who knew all the answers. He felt knowledge from that 'him' touch his mind. "You came here to kill me."_

" _No, I didn't. You're a victim of the Gorgon, so I'm rescuing you. Understand?"_

" _No, I…" Bones snapping between his teeth, flesh being crushed between his fingers. A legion of statues frozen in terror. The other 'him' fed him these memories. Were they his memories? Who was he?_

" _You're a victim of the Gorgon," Perseus said more insistently. "So I'm rescuing you."_

" _Is that … so?"_

" _It is. And that isn't the question you should ask."_

_The boy cocked his head, squinting as the sun beat down on him. He dipped his hand in the water below, feeling a sense of curious benevolence from the ocean around him. "What do you mean?"_

_Still rowing in that same methodical way, without the slightest change, Perseus spoke: "You asked me why you were still alive. That's a stupid question. Being alive's the default - there's no need to ask why you're alive. What you're wondering is 'why was I born'. I don't know why I was born either, and I don't really care."_

" _Why was I born…" It wasn't a question, not yet, but instead a musing._

" _If you want to find out, it'll probably be pretty hard. I doubt you'll ever figure it out, to be honest. But at least it'll give you something to do other than feel sorry for yourself."_

_Yes. It was good … it was a good question. A better than the one he'd previously been asking. The 'him' standing behind him faded away, the face of a demon cracking open and leaving only stray memories. It felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest._

_Why was he born._

_Why was he born?_

" _Chrysaor," he said quietly. Perseus glanced away from his rowing, looking at him in confusion._

" _What?"_

" _That's my name. I am Chrysaor. I don't know why, but I just know that. This is the name that was wanted for me. So I need to find out why Chrysaor was born."_

_Perseus chuckled. "You're taking that seriously, then?"_

* * *

"They weren't very strong, were they?" said Quera, rummaging through the possessions of the security officers that had come after her. The three of them lay in a pile, and likely wouldn't be waking up any time soon.

"That's not really fair, you know," said Rider, returning his golden sword to nonexistence. "Comparing normal humans to a Servant's strength."

"If they're taking on Masters," Quera grunted as she lifted one of the officers up onto her shoulder, getting ready to hide the bodies in one of the toilet stalls. "Then they should be ready to fight Servants, as well."

They'd noticed they were being tailed as soon as they'd arrived on Horizon Colony - the secret glances and whispered remarks between security gave it away immediately. Well, let them come, Quera decided - there really wasn't much they could do to her right now.

Horizon Colony was - subjectively speaking - the best colony. That is to say it was the one you'd most want to be stranded on, with its golden beaches, lush vegetation and clear blue oceans. It was nice to look at, but the air conditioning in the spaceport was welcome too.

If she died in this war, Quera wanted it to be in the lap of luxury, with a drink in her hand (one of those fancy ones with a lemon in it).

Getting the bodies into the cubicle, Quera shut the door - it wouldn't hide them for long, but it should suffice until they put some distance between them and the spaceport. Someone walked into the room, slipped a note into Quera's hand, and left. Walking over to the sink, Quera washed her bruised knuckles clean.

"So," she said to Rider. "What next?"

Rider blinked.

Quera blinked.

"Wait,  _what_?"

* * *

"It was definitely Assassin," said Rider, sitting across from her in the cafe. "Nobody else could slip by me like that."

Quera shovelled some chicken into her mouth, ignoring Rider's wince of discomfort at her eating manners. "Maybe you just weren't paying attention?"

Rider's brow furrowed in annoyance. "Master, I'd just -"

"First names."

They were sat at the outside table of a cafe on one of Horizon's beaches, the sound of the waves calming them after their recent scuffle and subsequent fright. Needless to say, they were paying with the money they'd taken from the security officers.

A sigh. " _Quera,_ I'd just completed a battle. I promise you, my senses were as sharp as they'd ever be. Assassin's Presence Concealment skill is the only thing that could have gotten past them - and he must be quite good, to walk so brazenly into the room and hand you something without either of us realizing it."

Frowning, Quera took a look at the note she'd been passed. It was written in block capitals, with some kind of marker pen:

_DO YOU BELIEVE IN MAGIC?_

_WALTONTECH WAREHOUSE 73 23:00_

_PROPOSE ALLIANCE_

"I don't trust it," said Rider. "Any alliance they propose would probably only benefit themselves. We shouldn't go."

"If they wanted to hurt us, they could have just cut my throat instead of handing me a note, right? I don't think there's any harm in hearing them out, at least."

Rider leaned forward, eyes flicking around until he was certain nobody was watching or listening. "If we take this alliance, we'll only be kept on until they don't need us anymore. That's the only kind of partnership an enemy will be interested in."

"Well, yeah," said Quera. "But we can just do the same thing to them, right?"

Rider raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I care for the idea of betraying someone, if I'm honest."

Quera considered it, toying with her food with her fork. A waitress came to ask if they wanted anything else, but Rider waved her off.

"This is war, you know, Rider."

"Yes, I'm aware," Rider rolled his eyes. "And I've fought in wars - so, yes, I am aware that treachery is sometimes necessary for victory. But I don't feel like that is the case here, so I won't endorse it."

"You're kind of a buzzkill, you know?" pouted Quera, wafting her face with the note. "Things would be so much easier if you just went along with this stuff."

"No," said Rider firmly, with a surprising intensity in his eyes - there was a firm declaration there that he would  _not_  go against his values, no matter the situation or the cost.

"You must have been a pretty good king…"

"I like to think so," said Rider, and then chuckled. "That must sound a little arrogant, mustn't it? Forgive me."

"So, you got me curious."

That same now-familiar sigh. "It wasn't my intention."

"How does the kid of the snake hair lady become king anyway? That's gotta be kind of a, uh, social disadvantage, hasn't it? How'd you get from point A to point B there?"

Rider leaned on the table, brushing a tendril of purple hair out of his gaze. "Well … I might have been the child of a monster, but I was also the son of a god. I suppose that balanced things out a little, no?"

Quera nodded - hesitantly. She'd lived on the streets for a long time, learnt to tell the difference between a lie and the truth. Just as her gut was telling her than going with the note was a good idea, it was telling her that Rider wasn't telling her the entire truth.

Well, that was his business. She wouldn't pry.

* * *

It took about a further hour of arguing, but Quera successfully managed to convince (or wear down) Rider enough to head to this meeting at the warehouse.

She'd felt fairly confident in that decision, but as she made her way through the night towards the meeting place, an anxiety started to brew in her gut. This was a dangerous situation. She knew that, of course, but the reality of it - that she could be killed any second, without warning - had only taken root after the first encounter with Assassin.

She'd been  _powerless_. She hadn't even been able to notice him, much less fight back against him.

If she was making a mistake here, like Rider probably thought she was, she wouldn't have much time to regret it.

But...

But…

She really couldn't think of a 'but' here. This was an objectively bad idea, and she probably shouldn't go through with it.

Quera opened the door to the warehouse.

It was an empty space, lacking even the crates and containers you'd expect from a shipping warehouse, lit by the moons shining through the windows. Quera's eyes flicked warily into the dark corners of the room, but she couldn't see anything. For now, it seemed, she was alone. She was safe, maybe.

Slightly - imperceptible - she relaxed, her shoulders lowering the tiniest fraction of an inch.

"I'm glad you could make it," purred a man's voice from behind her.

She swung around, Rider materializing next to her - sword in hand. He looked equally surprised, and from the glare in his eyes he was clearly ready for a battle to the death.

The man - Assassin - was tall and lithe, with a thin pencil moustache above his lip and an extravagant domino mask covering his eyes. That mask was framed by a mop of curly brown hair. He wore a black-and-white suit, with a zigzag pattern descending down his tie and an accessory that could only be described as a cape flowing down from his left shoulder.

He was turning something over in his hands - and when Quera looked, she saw that it was her own pistol. Without her even noticing, he'd snatched it out of her holster. When had he done it? Just before calling out to her? While she was walking here, maybe? Just  _now_ , after she'd already noticed him?

She couldn't put it past him. When it came to sleight of hand, this Servant was clearly a master.

"Glad to be here," she said, smirking in an attempt to bury her anxiety. "You gave me, uh, quite a fright there, pal."

"Oh, it wasn't my intention, mademoiselle," he said, words laced with just the slightest French accent. "Please, I beg you, forgive my foolish actions." Despite his words, he didn't really sound sorry at all. His eyes flicked to Rider. "And you, my good sir, I beg you calm yourself. There is no need for bloodshed in this place, no?"

"That depends on you," said Rider, sword still in hand. He didn't leave his combat stance. "I don't much care for these surprises you're so fond of."

Chuckling lightly, Assassin lifted his hands placatingly. "Of course, of course. Please understand - I have no talent for bloodshed, so such petty torment is my only joy. Ah, it's a shame, but that's just the sort of wretch I am, aha!" He spread his arms out theatrically, as if welcoming the applause of an invisible crowd.

"If you're no good at killing," Quera said suspiciously. "How can you be an Assassin?"

"Alas," Assassin wagged his finger. "Another evil whim of fate. It seems my talent for stealth - as I'm sure you've appreciated - outweighs my failure for slaughter. Thus, I am counted among the prodigious ranks of the Assassin class. A truly tragic fate." He bowed deep, still chuckling.

Quera blinked. She really didn't know what to say to this guy. He kind of pissed her off, to tell the truth.

"Assassin," said a soft voice from above. "Please do not tease our guests."

When Quera looked up, she saw a girl sitting on one of the beams above, dressed in a flowing, ornate dress. To tell the truth, she looked more like a living doll than anything else, with her immaculate blonde hair and shockingly pale skin. Cherry-red lips smiled as golden eyes locked with Quera's. A parasol was tucked delicately under her arm, and she waved it in greeting.

"The Prophets welcome you, my dear," she said, swinging her legs.

"And who're they when they're at home?"

The girl's smile grew, filled to the brim with pride. "The last mages of humanity."


	6. From Birth to Death in Half a Second

"I get the feeling that that's supposed to be impressive, but…" Quera shrugged. "You'd be the only mage I've met anyway, so it doesn't really mean that much to me. Sorry."

Out of the corner of her eye, Quera saw Assassin wince. She got the feeling she'd said something wrong - and when she looked back up, that feeling was confirmed.

There was a horribly murderous look on the womans face for a moment, just a moment - but that was enough. Eyes wide with zeal and fury, it looked for all the world like Quera had just spat in the woman's face rather than just spoken. The woman quickly corrected herself, pulling her face back into a dignified expression and giggling a terribly fake-sounding giggle.

Standing gently to her feet, she leapt off the beam - slowly floating to the ground with her open parasol, like Mary Poppins or something.

"My, my," she laughed lightly. "Young folk these days are so misinformed. But I suppose I can't blame you - the ways of the mage have been lost, after all. You simply don't know what you're talking about, do you? So sad, so sad…"

She landed, feet not making a sound as they made contact with the concrete beneath.

Quera bit her lip, quelling her frustration. If there was one thing she hated, it was being talked down to. She'd gotten enough of that back home, thank you very much. Everyone seemed to know what was best for you - or they claimed to - when they didn't even know what was best for themselves.

Still … speaking back to someone so clearly unstable seemed like a bad idea.

"I'm sorry," Quera lied. "I just … didn't know?"

She plastered a grin on her face just as fake as the woman's giggle. It seemed she fell for it anyway, however, as the hostility in her expression relaxed slightly.

"It can't be helped, I suppose," she said, closing her eyes and smiling slightly. "No, no, no, no, it can't. I forgive you. Yes, I forgive you … I am Ariadna. Ariadna Clements."

Well, that was a stupid name. Quera didn't say that out loud, though, as she had a self-preservation instinct. This woman seemed like the kind who would go crazy if she were pushed far enough.

"Nice to meet you," said Quera cautiously. The tension in Rider's posture, beside her, did not lessen in the least. "I'm Quera."

"Quera…?" Ariadna cocked her head.

"Let's keep it on first names for now."

A purse of the lips and a click of the tongue. "You're speaking to one of the Prophets, you know. A tad more respect wouldn't go amiss."

"You keep saying Prophets," said Quera, taking a step back to lean against the wall. She crossed her arms. "But you haven't said what that means. Care to explain?"

"But of course. You're familiar with us mages as we once were, yes? You read Dr. Simms' file?"

Quera stiffened. "How do you know that?"

"We know a great many things," Ariadna's smirk twisted into a grin. "Most things, in fact. Dr. Simms was one of us Prophets as well - one of the last twelve surviving mage scions of mankind. I am Prophet Nine, he was Prophet Two."

"Surviving?" Quera wrinkled her brow. "I thought magecraft died out, but what happened to the mages? You guys don't die just from not being able to do magic, right?"

The smugness and instability seemed to leave Ariadna's eyes for a moment, to be replaced by a deep and profound sadness. It looked for all the world like she was looking through Quera, as if she were instead viewing a scene from long ago. Assassin placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and her expression focused once again.

"When humanity…" she began, and then cleared her throat. "When humanity began to make its first strides into the stars, what remained of mage society protested - those who had influence among the mundane, anyway … and mankind turned against us."

"EarthReach?"

Ariadna nodded. "They sent legions after us - inquisitors, devils in human skin. Mage families were slaughtered in their homes, children strangled in their cribs. Diseases dispersed in the atmosphere to target Magic Circuits. Information networks set up to report any sign of magecraft - of mages, so they could be snuffed out. We believed ourselves to be invincible, to be outside of the concerns of petty man … it took them but a year to all but wipe us out."

Again, her eyes took on that distant look - she was seeing it all. The executions, the bodies, the death.

Quera shifted from foot to foot awkwardly. Now she felt a little uncomfortable judging this woman so readily. But, no, should she really? Sure - she had a sad story, but who didn't? Did that really make her any less obnoxious?

Besides, this was war. She couldn't afford to be taken in by a few words and a sad look.

"And you Prophets are the survivors," she said coldly.

Ariadna nodded. "I seek the Holy Grail to restore our society. For what reason do you desire it?"

She managed to make it an accusation, as if Quera's reasons for seeking the Grail were lesser than hers. Which, strictly speaking, was true. Improving her own financial solution did pale a little when compared to resurrecting a near-extinct culture -

No. No. She had as much right to the grail as anyone else. Who got it would be decided through battle, not a guilt trip.

"I'll keep that to myself too," she answered, careful not to let anything slip. For a moment, she saw Assassin's lips quirk upwards in a smile - but only for a moment. He truly radiated the sense of being a man who shouldn't be trusted.

"That's fair," said Ariadna, fake smile quickly returning. "Your reasons are your own. I forgive you … yes, I forgive you. I assume, however, you know of my reason for inviting you here?"

Quera froze, eyes darting to Assassin. She could still recognize his presence. Good - there wasn't an execution coming up, in that case. She flicked her gaze back towards Ariadna.

"An alliance?" she suggested, hoping very much that that wasn't the case. She didn't like the idea of a fight breaking out here and now.

Ariadna nodded and - almost giving Quera a heart attack - leaned forward and booped her on the nose with her finger. "You are such a smart one, dear! You should really be proud of yourself for discerning my intentions so fast!"

Was this girl rude as hell or just crazy? Quera honestly couldn't tell.

"Mademoiselle," chuckled Assassin. "I believe you're making our guest uncomfortable, no?"

Ariadna stepped back, eyebrows raised as if the idea honestly hadn't occurred to her. Like all her expressions thus far, that one quickly cleared too and she clapped her hands together as if nothing had happened. "So! In what order shall we dispatch our foes, Quera? I'd love your input."

"Hold on," said Quera, holding out a hand. "What kind of alliance would this be? We're going to fight each other eventually, so I don't want us getting all buddy-buddy beforehand. It's best if we just agree not to fight each other until we're the last two standing, right?"

Ariadna's face fell slightly, and she stepped back. She seemed legitimately disappointed, and for a moment Quera couldn't help but feel bad again. Was that something she was doing on purpose, to manipulate her? Quera honestly couldn't tell.

Even so, she pushed her doubts away, and focused on the desire that had led her to summon Rider in the first place. Never again would she feel helpless, pushed around by the desires and whims of others.

She needed more information.

"This Dr. Simms - Prophet Two, whatever. What does he have to do with all this? I found the file on the Holy Grail War on his ship, but I don't know why he had it. Why don't you tell me the full story, and then I decide what's going on with us?"

She had no intention of becoming full-on allies either way, of course, but it couldn't hurt to give that impression.

Ariadna took a deep breath, as if decided whether she could afford to give away all her information. Weighing Quera's value as a teammate against the value of such unrevealed knowledge. Then, she began to speak:

"Us Prophets don't know each other's identities. Well, we're not supposed to - so that if one of us is caught, we can't tattletale on the others. We all have spies trying to discover each other's identities anyway, of course, for political reasons."

"That's foolish," said Rider, speaking up suddenly for the first time in a while. "The benefit to the individual isn't worth risking the entire group. Even if you were motivated by greed or ambition, the reward simply isn't worth it."

Ariadna looked away. "We had to be sure none of the other Prophets were planning actions against us."

"Of course." Rider sounded disappointed, but unsurprised.

"Anyway, I discovered Simms' identity - and began following his actions. During our council meetings - anonymous, of course - he began to mention a plan he had to resurrect magus society."

"The Holy Grail War, right?" said Quera.

Ariadna nodded. "That's correct. He thought to wish upon the Holy Grail to reverse the devastation of our society. For that purpose, he gathered massive amounts of Zenithlight to recreate the ritual."

"Sounds like a good plan. Free wish, so long as you can win the war."

"I'd agree - except he didn't inform the other Prophets. Had he done so, all seven slots could be filled from among our ranks, ensuring our wish would come true no matter the victor. Simms obviously wished for his own advancement as well."

Quera didn't speak up to mention how Ariadna apparently hadn't informed the other Prophets either, but the thought crossed her mind.

"What about the other participants? How'd they find out about this?"

"The information leaked, I supposed. Perhaps one of Simms' servants or close colleagues let others know. Now, a number of parties are involved, including EarthReach." Ariadna's eyes turned cold, dead, and her voice just as much. A robotic monotone. "No matter what, I cannot allow them to win the Grail. They'll finish us off. I just know it."

A moment of silence, the wind whistling a jolly tune outside.

"An alliance, then…?" said Ariadna.

"No." Quera shook her head. "But a truce."

The silence continued, both of them staring into the eyes of the other. Rider's hand inched - just the slightest fraction of a centimeter - towards his sword, stopping when Assassin's eyes flicked towards him.

"That's … acceptable," said Ariadna.

Two patrol ships moved to avoid a swarm of asteroids on their newly assigned patrol on the edge of the Zenith system. Ever since the CEO's son had been kidnapped, security throughout the system had been dispatched on a variety of new missions. Many officers were seeing more action now than they had in the last twenty years.

Odrik Vorson, however, was stuck patrolling what was literally the middle of nowhere. No, actually, that was giving it too much credit. It was the edge of nowhere, far from where even nothing was happening. In the unlikely event that something were to happen in the middle of nowhere, he would be far too far away to appreciate it.

He drummed his fingers on the controls of the patrol ship, eyes lazily scanning over the data it was feeding him. Truth be told, humans weren't even really needed on these new patrol ships - the autopilot just took care of things automatically, feeding visual data to the nearest security station if they were unmanned. He was just here so they could get information a little more quickly.

"Y'see anything, Ted?" Odrik spoke over the communications to the other ship.

"Nooope."

Odrik adopted a tone of mock-surprise. "Well, that's a real surprise to me there, Ted! I've done this route god-knows how many times and it's been a while since I saw nothing - nothing at all! This is one for the books, huh buddy?"

"Don't be a jackass, heheh."

"Can't help it, Ted. It's my natural state of being."

"Funny guy." Odrik could almost hear the roll of the eyes.

"Glad you think so. I - hold on a sec."

Something was approaching on the ships sensors - a huge object entering the Zenith system, surrounded by a swarm of smaller objects. If it was that close, thought, it should have been visible.

Odrik looked up, and saw the ship decloak, becoming visible.

There had been many groups of mercenaries and deserters over the years who had turned to attacking other ships for supplies and had called themselves pirates. Most of these pirate gangs were short-lived - either EarthReach apprehended them, or they killed each other over money or leadership rights. Pirate gangs, like mayflies, had short lives.

Except one. One had never been caught, never fallen, never faltered.

The pirate flagship, once an EarthReach battleship until it was stolen, was plated with solid gold, encrusted with diamonds and other, more alien jewels. It's already impressive arsenal of weaponry had been supplemented with countless other cannons and lasers protruding from every available orifice, ready to blast any unwelcome visitors straight out of the sky. Swarms of fighters and unmanned drones buzzed around the ship, an extra layer of both offense and defense.

On the side of the ship was its name: The All for One.

And right on top of the ship, in the vacuum of face, stood a man with his arms crossed. He was huge, nearly eight feet tall, and dark-skinned - covered in intricate geometric tattoos, like some kind of circuit board. Long white hair flowed as if there were wind, and a braided white beard hung from his chin. He was shirtless, muscles like those of a carved statue on full display - save for a red sash hanging from his shoulder - but a black robe concealed his lower half.

Odrik couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't even blink.

There was a colossal bow floating next to the man, like nothing Odrik had ever seen - made of materials he couldn't even identify, and pulsing with a red light from within. It's string was lightning, and a floating circle of glyphs rotated around where one would expect an arrowhead to protrude.

The man - moving so slowly from Odrik's perspective, and yet in reality moving blindingly fast - mimed the action of pulling back a bowstring, and the bow next to him responded in kind, lightning moving backwards as if being pulled and the glyphs intensifying in light. There was a sound, building up even in the silence of space, as if a hurricane were approaching.

Then, it stopped - and a pinprick of golden light hung in front of the bow.

"Retreat!" roared Odrik into the communicator, hands moving to force the ship to escape.

His hands never reached the controls.

The point of light launched, becoming a projectile that moved fluidly through the air like a golden thread, flowing towards the two ships at a blinding speed. First, it punctured through Odrik's cockpit, hitting him right between the eyes and killing him instantly - but leaving no visible wound.

Next, it darted out through the same hole it had entered through - repairing it on the way out, as respect for the slain - and moves towards Ted's ship, which was turning to escape. This time, the thread moved in a solid, zig-zag shape, moving in hard angles. Perhaps it had lost some of its fine control because it had been out for longer. Nevertheless, it crossed the gap between the two ships, maneuvering between every scrap of space dust so that it touched nothing but its target.

All of this took place in about half a second.

The arrow punctured Ted's cockpit, hitting him right between the eyes as well - still leaving no wound, but killing him without a doubt. This time, the arrow disappeared right after killing its target, so it didn't repair the damage it had done to the cockpit. As a result, the vacuum meant that things within the ship became messy very quickly.

The arrow could only sustain itself for about a second, give or take.

That was only to be expected. This was Archer's weakest form of attack, after all.

Observing the two ships, now floating in space, Archer sighed. He closed his eyes, offering a moment of respect for the two dead. Their only crime had been in being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Then, he fired another arrow - so quickly you couldn't even tell that he had moves. This second attack was to destroy the ships black boxes, as well as all the other means they had to store data. Archer's Master wanted to keep his location hidden for as long as possible. He truly was a lamentable man.

After confirming the destruction of all targets, Archer waved a hand. His grand bow disappeared, dissolving into what looked like dust and then completely vanishing.

A moment later, he himself did the same.


	7. All That Glitters

Percin blinked, mouth hanging open in surprise as he looked out the window of the  _All for One._

Security patrols had always been one of the main obstacles in operating within the Zenith system - even if you took them out, they near-instantly transmitted a warning to the nearest security station. Percin himself had had to abandon many a raid after detecting them approaching the area. They were an annoyance, needless to say, but he had always seen them as obstacles to be avoided, not enemies to be defeated.

And yet … this new weapon of the Captain's, this … this Servant, had neutralized that obstacle with as much effort it took to squash a bug with a finger.

"Have I convinced ya yet, Perce?" boomed the Captain, sat at his throne at the back of the room. It was just the Captain's seat, of course, but with the way he sat in it, you had no choice but to think of it as a throne.

Percin turned away from the window, regaining his composure as he looked at the Captain. As he did so, he brushed a lock of pale hair out of his vision. Percin wasn't a old man by any means, but he had a full head of white hair nonetheless, a stark contrast with the Captain's black.

The Captain adjusted himself on his throne.

He was a huge man - not as big as the Servant, but still a true goliath - and toned with muscle. One eye was behind a patch that fed him tactical data, but the other stared forward, red pupil shining with a peculiar optimism. He wore an open jacket with no shirt underneath it - he liked showing himself off - and a pair of ragged blue jeans. There were no shoes in the ensemble - the Captain said that he never wore shoes while he was at home, and the  _All for One_ was the only home he had.

Percin had known him for about thirty years now. He didn't understand Captain Baruk in the least.

Nevertheless, he shrugged, adopting an easy grin on his face. This was the kind of demeanour the Captain approved of - he didn't care to have his momentum stopped or even slowed down. "He's impressive, Captain. I'll give ya that. I don't see anyone standing against us so long as he's around."

Baruk chuckled. "I know, right? Yo, Bhishma. C'mere a sec." He snapped his fingers.

The Servant - Archer, apparently - appeared next to Baruk's throne, arms crossed. As he did so, the men gathered in the room - scoundrels one and all - lifted their drinks and cheered him for a job well done. He didn't respond. He didn't even look at the cheering men. Baruk didn't seem to notice that, though.

Percin winced inwardly. It seemed to him that this Archer was the kind of hero who was big on honour and all that. No doubt it hurt his pride to work with - no, work  _for_  a bunch of pirates. Well, he'd just have to get used to it.

"You did good, Bhishma," grinned Baruk, leaning back in his throne. "Proud of ya."

"Master," Archer spoke, his voice a rumble, eyes glancing at the Captain with a hint of exasperation. "We've already talked about this, but I'd advise against you using my True Name so recklessly. Others may hear of this conversation."

"Nah, nah," Baruk waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. I trust my boys, and I'm right to. Right, boys?"

Another cheer rippled throughout the room. Percin smiled to himself. Baruk could pretty much provoke that response on request now. It was the kind of thing they could never have dreamed of thirty years back.

Archer simply sighed, fading away again - but that didn't seem to lessen Baruk's mood any, who continued his roaring laugh. "Ah, he's a good sport! Save him a drink for later, boys!"

Percin was fairly sure this Archer didn't drink - from what he'd observed so far - but he didn't say anything. Let the Captain have his fun. He'd more than earned it, after all.

Taking a sip of his own drink, Percin closed his eyes and let the party wash him away.

At some point in the night, mind more liquid than solid from drink and smoke, Percin became aware that Archer was sat next to him, taking up two seats. The Servant was eating an entire chicken - cutting it up with a comically small knife and fork, held between his fingers. Percin couldn't help but chuckle at the sight.

"Amusing to you that I must eat?" rumbled Archer, sobering Percin up some - but only some. He was still only marginally aware of what was going on.

"It's, haha, ehehe, you know … small, eh?"

"Why do you follow this man?" Archer continued as if Percin hadn't said anything. With one finger, he motioned towards the Captain, sleeping in his throne. "Despite your current … state, you seem an intelligent man. I notice you observing and judging, advising my Master when an opportunity emerges."

Percin blinked, suddenly feeling as if this were a very important conversation. A pressure seemed to radiate from Archer, telling him that. His answer here would decide a great many things.

Clearing as much of the haze from his mind as he could, Percin spoke: "I've known the Captain - your Master - most of my life. We grew up on Europa Colony together - families worked in the life mines there. I've…" he took another breath. "I don't suppose I've ever wanted anything. Telling ya the truth, gimme food, water and sleep and I'm a happy enough man. But Baruk … he can want enough for two men. Hell, enough for a hundred."

Archer raised an eyebrow. "You follow him because of his greed?"

Percin shook his head. "Nah, nah. Ain't greed. There's some of that, sure, but it's what he does about it. Man's a dreamer, the biggest one I've ever seen. He wants something, he gets it - but more than that, he makes you  _believe_  he can get it, makes you want to help him get it, just to see it happen. Just to be part of the dream, you know?"

He looked over at his sleeping Captain fondly, a nostalgic smile rising to his lips. Baruk'd been a tiny thing, back on Europa, and Percin had always been looking down at him. When had it become the other way around? When had his heart begun to beat so strangely when he looked at him, listened to him ramble about his ambitions? It was nonsense, to be sure, but Percin held onto every word.

Archer followed Percin's gaze, nodding slightly. "I understand. He inspires others to accompany him. That's praiseworthy, to be sure, but what dreams has he left to achieve? He lives in a warship dripping with gold, surrounded by followers who worship him. What does his ambition target?"

Percin froze, remembering the dark days after Gemini Station. The days when his Captain had just sat there, sapped of will, eyes dead and cold. The whispered accusations, the sobs and wails in the night. That damned  _photo_ , hugged to his chest at all hours.

"That's personal," he said coldly, and more forcefully than most would dare in the company of a hero such as Archer.

The Servant looked down at him, eyes widening in surprise. "How so?"

"There's no need for me to tell you that," he continued. "And I'd ask you not ask it of the Captain, either. I respect your abilities, sir, I do, but you've gotta understand that that ain't any of your business. You can fight for your wish without worrying about what the Captain wants."

"If my Master desires death and destruction," said Archer calmly. "Then I cannot follow him. It would be my duty to shoot him down right now. At this moment."

The two stared at each other, eyes unbreaking. Percin instantly understood that Archer was not joking or exaggerating. If he gave the wrong answer, the Servant would stand up and put an arrow through the Captain's head without a moment's hesitation.

"I'll tell you that - that his wish won't cause any harm to anyone. It's to regain something … to regain something lost, not take something from someone else. That okay with you?"

Despite the sounds of the party around them, the cheering and carousing, the room seemed silent to Percin - save for the sound of his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears like war drums. Would Archer stand up? Percin was hyper focused, waiting for the slightest muscle movement that would give him an answer one way or the other.

What would he do? Shout a warning? That was pointless. Archer had destroyed those two patrol ships in less time than it took to blink. He wouldn't even be able to open his mouth before the man got a shot off.

He could only hope, then, that he'd given the right answer.

Finally, Archer blinked. He gave no signs of standing up. "To bring back something that has been lost…" he mused, rubbing his chin. "A loved one, then?"

"It ain't my place to tell you that."

Archer chuckled, a low sound that went right through Perin's bones. It was the first sign of levity that he'd seen from the Servant. "I suppose not. Your loyalty is a splendid thing, mister…?"

"Lawson."

"Mr. Lawson."

Archer got up, and Perin's heart nearly burst right out of his chest in shock, but the man made no moves to attack. Instead, he turned away - walking towards the hallway that led through crew quarters.

"Where're you going?" said Perin, brow furrowing in confusion.

"For the time being," Archer said, stopping for a moment. "I will amuse myself with exploration of this vessel. Please tell my Master that."

"You want  _me_ to tell him? Why?"

"I like you, Mr. Lawson," said Archer, an unmistakable tone of respect in his voice. "You are a frank man who is aware of his own mind, if not his heart. These are the kinds of people I get along with, so I have hopes for you. I'll handle all contact with my Master through you for the time being. Do you understand?"

Blinking rapidly, Perin nodded, still confused. "But - but why?"

"My Master does  _not_  know his own mind. He layers merriment over sorrow, as if that erases it. It does not, and he must learn that." Archer raised a finger. "And tell him this also - I will not engage in needless bloodshed again. This first demonstration was necessary to prove my abilities to him, but the only enemies I will fight from this point on are Servants. That is a vow I make before you now, and I will hold myself to it until the end of this war."

With that said, he turned away and disappeared into the depths of the ship, leaving a befuddled Percin in the room behind him.

"That so? He's pretty cheeky, huh?" said the Captain the next morning, rubbing at the stubble on his chin.

They were sat in Baruk's quarters the next morning, and Percin had just finished relaying Archer's message. Baruk was lounging in his bed at the time - doubtless still nursing a healthy hangover - while Percin sat at his bedside.

"Sounds like a headache to me, Captain," said Percin. "If he ain't gonna be following orders, then how much trust can we - can you put in him? You don't send a package off with a guy you don't know is gonna deliver."

Baruk sat there for about a minute, eyes closed, simply thinking things through - or trying to get over his headache? It was hard to tell.

"Sir?" Percin ventured, leaning in a little in an attempt to read Baruk's expression. Suddenly, he opened his eyes, and Percin jerked back a little in surprise and mild embarrassment. The Captain pounded a fist into his palm, as if he were a judge coming to a verdict.

"Nah, nah," he chuckled. "I like that. I like that he said that. I like guys that can speak their minds. Nothing worse than a suckup. Besides, anything that ain't a Servant - we can take care of easy peasy. Can't let that bastard have all the fun, right?"

The Captain liked people that were frank.

Archer had said something, hadn't he?  _You are a frank man who is aware of his own mind, if not his heart. If not his heart…_

Percin opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. Being able to stay and fight at his Captain's side, to watch in awe as he snatched the stars out of the skies themselves, and wrestled his dreams away from God … surely that was enough for him.

Surely.

* * *

Walking out of her father's office, Rosa Vane was nearly hyperventilating, moving down the hallway as fast as her feet would allow without outright breaking into a run. The faux-windows on either side of her, holographically generated, displayed the vistas of a dozen different alien worlds. Fields of singing grass, canyons of magma and smoke, diamonds flying through the skies like birds.

She couldn't appreciate any of them. Her brother was missing - no, worse than that, he'd been  _kidnapped_. Stolen! And the things they'd threatened to do to him…

She squeezed her fists so tight her nails nearly drew blood - then, realizing that, she began running her hands through her hair instead, tugging on her red ponytail for a moment. It looked ridiculous, but she needed to be doing  _something_. She felt so useless. Dad had sent out security throughout the system, but what if they didn't find Isaac? What if that just angered the people who'd taken him?

_I will tear his eyes out from his head, and his tongue out from his mouth._

_I will break every bone he has._

_I will drown him in acid and see him empty._

She put a hand to her mouth and leaned against the wall, suppressing an urge to vomit. Imagining her little brother in that position … it was unbearable. She looked at the Command Seals on the back of her hand, in the shape of three diamonds. Should she just do what the kidnapper said, then? Order her Servant to kill himself?

No. That was too easy an answer, too good to be true. Isaac was too valuable a hostage - they'd surely keep hold of him after that, and demand more. And maybe they would kill him anyway after that, just for the fun of it.  _I will drown him in acid and see him empty._  No sane mind would come up with that threat.

They were going to kill her brother. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. OhgodohgodohgodohgodOHGODOHGODOHGOD _OHGODOHGODOHGOD -_

"Miss," said Lancer, appearing behind her, his voice reassuring. He placed a hand on her shoulder - although the suit made it cold, it was still a comfort, and Rosa was - over the course of the next few minutes - able to get herself under control, blinking tears of frustration out of her eyes.

"Th...thank you," she said eventually, putting a hand to her chest and breathing deeply, the way her tutors had taught her to when she got stressed. "I needed that."

"No problemo, Miss," said Lancer, taking a step away to give her some space. His boots were heavy on the floor. "It's what I'm here for, the way I see it."

Turning away from the wall to face her Servant, Rosa smiled. Surely there was no need to make Lancer kill himself - with this hero at her side, neither Earth nor Heaven could stand in the way of them getting her brother back. After all, this was the man who had conquered both all those years ago.

Despite the fact that he was wearing a concealing spacesuit, Rosa could feel sympathy radiating out of the opaque black visor.

"Thank you, Mr. Armstrong," she said again.


	8. Thief Against Neon

Ariadna watched as the door closed behind Quera. Her new ally had agreed that they wouldn't go after each other until the war's last stages.

She snapped her fingers, using the Zenithlight concealed beneath her clothes to reenact her family magecraft - dominion over the wind, granted by Zis. She formed a bubble of air beneath herself to sit down on, and crossed her legs elegantly. Elegantly. All things must be elegant, yes, for that was the duty of a mage.

"What do you think of them, Assassin?" she said, retrieving a flask from her pocket and taking an elegant sip. Yes, yes, just like a mage. How wonderful. How truly, truly wonderful.

"Hmm…" Assassin tapped a finger against his temple, contemplating the question. "The hair of the Servant was really very alluring, but the attitude of his Master was a bit of a turn-off, if I'm honest."

Oh, ahaha. What an amusing Servant she had. A truly amusing Servant, yes. He'd been like this since she'd summoned him Her eye twitched. "No, no, no, no, Assassin. As allies, what do you think of them?"

Assassin sighed with a smile on his face, spreading his arms wide. "Hm … as allies, you say? Well, they've already denied that request, haven't we? So it's useless to consider the possibility, no?"

The man truly did seem to delight in annoying her. Ariadna smiled once again, teeth bared elegantly, and repeated: "But what would you think of them as allies?"

Assassin blinked, the levity disappearing from his face as he saw his Master's patience was gone. Good, good, he was a man who understood to read the room. Wonderful, truly wonderful…

"Rider is strong," he said after a moment. "He would serve as an excellent executioner's axe, while I distract the enemy and drive them to paranoia."

Ariadna laughed, putting her hand in front of her mouth the way she'd always seen her mother do. Yes, yes, that was the way to laugh. That was the proper and elegant way to express human happiness - no, no, no, no, the happiness of a mage. To be a mage was to reject the happiness of being a human. Yes, that was it. Yes, that was it.

"That's a wonderful idea, Assassin - yes, truly wonderful. Should we convince them, they should make such marvellous allies for us. I'm feeling very confident right now."

Assassin gave her a funny look. "What are you planning?"

"A theft, Assassin. A heist is the word? I'm not sure. Does that please you, Assassin? Does the thought of taking from others amuse you?"

A light laugh filled the warehouse, as Assassin lowered himself into a deep and exaggerated bow. "But of course! Such wickedness is my calling in life, and thus my only joy! You truly understand me like no other, Master. What, may I ask, am I taking, and from whom?"

Ariadna told him, and Assassin's eyes widened in surprise and - yes, she could see it - excitement. The promise of an impossible heist, the challenge of such an adventure, aroused those emotions in him.

"Well," he laughed. "When you intend to provide a bribe, you go all the way, Master. I must congratulate you on your ambition, at the very least. Behold - I will now congratulate you." He clapped his hands quietly, then stopped a moment later. "But I must repeat my question - this is  _truly_ what you want of me?"

"Yes."

He replied without missing a beat: "Then I'll need my Noble Phantasm to accomplish such a feat. Do I have your permission, my lady?"

"But of course," Ariadna smiled. "I wouldn't ask you to commit such a crime without such means. What can kind of woman do you take me for?"

"I wouldn't want to say, my lady, but thank you for your trust." Again, he bowed - with that same impertinence in it. How truly truly inelegant. Ariadna's eye twitched. But it was fine, fine, truly wonderful, she was feeling very confident now.

"I wish you the best of luck, Assassin," she said.

Assassin turned to leave, cape swishing in the air behind him. As he did, there was a flare of red light - and when it cleared, there was a punk-looking girl in a hoodie with dyed blue hair where he had just stood.

Yes, Assassin was truly a master of disguise. Yes, truly, truly.

She spoke aloud to Assassin's back as he - currently she - left. "I do wonder, Assassin. Will you one day betray me?"

"But of course," said Assassin without stopping, lifting their hand in an easy wave. "What kind of scoundrel do you take me for?"

Their laughter faded into the night, leaving Ariadna to her thoughts.

* * *

Damian Vane sat in his office, eyes closed and elbows on his desk, mentally sorting through the events of the last few days. His son kidnapped. His daughter a wreck. The War very much not off to the start he'd expected.

The office was decorated in the Lawston style, all the furniture a stark white, with the floors and walls being a deep black. When presented properly, with enough care, it felt as though you were floating in the void, as though you were the only thing of substance in the world. Usually, it felt pretty affirming. Now, it just made Damian feel more anxious - like he was adrift in the void of space, with direction and gravity having both abandoned him. There was nothing worse than being directionless. Absolutely  _nothing_.

He rubbed his temples through his thick black hair. There was definitely a way out of this. There was always a way out of everything, and  _into_  everything too. That was a belief dear to Damian's heart. Anything could be accomplished, so long as you knew the method.

He'd found the method for many things in his life, those invisible steps that led him to fortune and success.

He'd discovered Zenithlight, built a fortune from it.

He'd made the Zenith system his own.

He'd advanced ZenithCorp to such a degree that they were almost their own government, independent from Earth.

So. So so so. These new obstacles, in comparison, were mundane. Below his concern. The steps to rid himself of them were surely leagues simpler than those that he'd climbed to get this far. He could find his way out of this situation with ease, so long as his feet could find those  _steps_.

Rosa could be calmed. Isaac could be found, retrieved, rescued. The kidnapper could be killed. Slowly.

Anger flared in Damian's mind as he thought of the person who had taken his son. Did they think him someone to trifle with? Someone who could be pushed around and bullied like some hapless fool?

He gritted his teeth. Since the kidnapping, he'd gone over the ransom note over and over again, both physically and in his mind. The things they'd said they'd do to his Isaac … he'd surely take inspiration from them when they found the culprit.

All he needed … all he needed was to place his foot out on that first step, and find solid ground beneath him. A foundation on which to build his retaliation.

He'd dispatched his security throughout the system. Was that the first necessary step? He couldn't be sure.

How much time did he have? The kidnapper hadn't given him a specific deadline, but only said 'immediately'. Surely they wouldn't do away with their hostage immediately, though, no matter what they'd said. He was too valuable to them.

But still. Still still still. There was a time limit. He only had so long in which to climb.

Damn it, all he needed was that first goddamn  _step_.

" _Damian Vane_ ," said a voice inside his head. Jovial, with a light French accent.

Damian jumped, falling out of his chair and collapsing to the void-black floor. He looked up wildly, only to stop when he saw that the room was empty.

"Hello?" he said, kicking himself inwardly when he heard how meek he sounded. That wouldn't do, to sound weak when confronted with an intruder. That was  _not_  how he presented himself. He gathered himself and spoke again, more firmly: "Who is this? Identify yourself!"

" _This is Servant Assassin, of the Holy Grail War. I trust you're familiar."_

Damian's blood went cold. Assassin? Here?

He heard the voice chuckle. " _Worry not. I am not here for your life. In fact, I'm not 'here' at all. I'm currently on Horizon Colony, in fact, at the top of the Gold Werewolf Casino and Hotel - if I'm more specific, in room 674 on the nineteenth floor. Right now, I'm sitting on the bed - the left side - consuming a mint the maid must have left on my pillow. It's quite good."_

"W...What?" Damn it, not like that, not like that! "What are you talking about, Servant?"

" _I'm talking to you right now as sort of a calling card. It's a necessary condition for my Noble Phantasm, you see. Calling Card requires me to tell you my exact location, and to tell you exactly what I'm going to steal - which, in this case, will be your entire personal fortune."_

Damian couldn't reply to that. He only blinked, mouth opening and closing like a fish plucked from the water. No, no, no, this couldn't be happening. Not to him. Not after all he'd worked for. The steps he'd taken. The  _steps_.

" _I trust you're too shocked to speak, so I'll continue. As a master thief, it will take forty-eight hours for your fortune to pass into my hands - I know it's currently stored physically within the head offices of ZenithCorp, and where. All the conditions for Calling Card have been cleared. You'll be receiving updates on my location hourly until either I've stolen your fortune or I am caught. By caught, I mean that either you or a person acting on your orders makes physical contact with me. Forgive me for rambling on, but there's a need to be specific about these things. Good day."_

"Wait!" Damian spluttered, all sense of dignity forgotten in the face of this threat.

Assassin did not wait. The room was silent.

* * *

Assassin slapped his hands together, congratulating himself on a job well done as he got up from the bed.

"Going somewhere?" said Eliza, still lying in bed. She was a lovely lady who Assassin had met in the casino below and had taken a liking to - but, alas, it was time to part.

"I must be off, unfortunately," he said, leisurely dressing himself once again. "The authorities will no doubt come to this place soon - within a few minutes, I imagine." He slung his cape over his shoulder - he'd never worn such a thing in life, but he had to admit it was quite fetching. "I apologize if they're a bit rough with you, but please try to bear it."

Eliza sat up, eyes wide as she pulled the covers to preserve her modesty. " _What?_ "

"Goodbye," said Assassin, winking at her - and then he leapt out of the open window.

Ah, the night sky on Horizon truly was bracing - it had nice warm days and soothingly cold nights. As Assassin fell from the hotel window, he swore he could even see some snow reflected in the light. It was a shame that it would melt come day; it reminded him somewhat of Paris in the winter. Once he won the war, perhaps he would head back there to see how it had fared over the years.

Oh?

Assassin glanced up - some kind of security vehicle was flying through the sky in the direction of the casino, lights flashing red and blue. They really did have a quick dispatch time! Very impressive!

He supposed he'd best use his Presence Concealement to put some distance between him and the authorities before Damian Vane was alerted to his location again.

Oh, but where was the fun in that?

Still falling, Assassin let out a bellowing laugh, doing a flip. The searchlight on the bottom of the security craft instantly locked onto him, illuminating him in a stark spotlight, as though he were on stage. Airborne, Assassin bowed towards his new audience. He really was a lucky man, to be able to experience such thrills even after his death.

Angling himself carefully, Assassin kicked himself off from the casino and shot up into the air - winking at the handsome pilot as he flew past the cockpit - and landed on top of the security craft. Without missing a beat, he ran along its surface and hopped to the next building over, maintaining a speed that, although very fast for a human body, was considerably below his capabilities as a Servant.

Such chases really weren't any fun without a handicap.

He heard a door being kicked in, and heavy boots running out onto the roof. He spun around as he reached the edge of the roof, waving a hand in welcome as a squad of security officers surrounded him, rifles in hand.

"On your knees!" shouted the leader of the squad, gun aimed squarely at Assassin's face.

"Oh, monsieur!" Assassin said, putting a hand to his chest in faux-shock. "At least buy me dinner first!"

Assassin moved out of the way a second before the man pulled the trigger, dodging the bullet fired at him expertly. To tell the truth, he doubted it would do anything to him as a Servant, but the display of dexterity was rather fetching. What was the point of being shot at if you couldn't have a little fun with it?"

"Please, monsieur, calm yourself!" laughed Assassin, arms spread wide. "If I hadn't been paying attention, you could have scratched me!"

Next, the entire squad fired - these really were volatile fellows, weren't they? Had Vane not told them the objective was simply to  _touch_  Assassin? He'd thought he'd gotten that point across well, but perhaps not. Ah well. He'd fulfilled his duty and told the man how to deactivate Calling Card - it was up to him whether he used that information correctly.

Oh, right. Assassin focused on the situation. He was still being shot at, wasn't he? Still chuckling, he took the cape at his shoulder and spread it wide, deflecting the entire volley of bullets heading towards him in an instant.

The captain of the squad blinked, disbelief written across every inch of his face. Was that a small tremor Assassin detected in his hands, as well? Well, one could hardly blame the man. He'd likely gone through life believing the solution to every problem was a swift and sure bullet.

Well, Assassin liked to think of himself as a problem without a solution.

He blinked, cocking his head. "I'm sure you have more ammunition, monsieur," he gestured towards the man's rifle with one hand. "Please, don't stop on my account. Continue."

There was a moment of tension on the roof, the security officers' eyes flicking hesitantly towards the leader. Did they continue their assault, or did they simply give up in the face of a man who could block bullets with mere cloth? Assassin, for one, was excited to find out.

The man, slowly, clipped his rifle back to his uniform and put his hands by his sides. Assassin frowned. He was giving up? How disappointing.

Then, he whipped out a baton and pressed a button on it, causing it to spark with electricity. Assassin's frown instantly flipped into an overjoyed grin. Oh, this really was the kind of encounter he'd hoped for!

The squad, following their leader's example, rushed Assassin at once, stun batons in hand - but Assassin nonchalantly dodged every swing. He gave them some hope for success, of course, waiting until the last possible moment before moving out of the way. It was only right that he make it as entertaining for them as it was for him, after all.

Still, he had to admit that - all things considered - he was actually at something of a disadvantage here. Dodging was really the only move open to him. He couldn't block any of their strikes or counterattack, as that would count as them making physical contact with him, and deactivate Calling Card. Plus, once Calling Card had failed against a target once, it couldn't be used against that target again.

So, he had to be careful. But not  _too_  careful. That would be boring.

He  _did_  have a way to counterattack, come to think of it, and quite an amusing one. Assassin stepped out of the way of another blow, positioning himself carefully - and when another blow came for him and he dodged, it instead hit the officer right behind him, sending him flying with a blast of electricity.

"Oh my," said Assassin, rubbing his chin and ducking to avoid another strike. "You really need to be careful with these things. Is that fellow alright?"

The blows came faster, driven on by frustration at how nothing seemed able to touch this enemy - and more than one of those blows fell upon the officer's own comrades, each time punctuated by an amused laugh from Assassin.

Finally, when all the remaining officers were panting and struggling to stand up straight - such was their exhaustion - Assassin stepped away from the group. He looked exactly the same as when the encounter had began, with not even a hair out of place.

"Gentlemen," he said, bowing deeply and genuinely. "I thank you for a truly invigorating evening. Would you please tell your Mr. Vane that he has forty-one hours left in which to catch me? Thank you."

And with that, he fell backwards off the building.


End file.
